


The Turquoise Cottage

by Dropsofarainbow219



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Depression, Dubious Consent, F/F, Femslash, Genderbending, Heartbreak, Hermit Draco, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, SO, Shower Sex, Tea, i am honouring the tradition, i think half of drarry fics involve tea in some way, mentally unstable harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:17:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7487691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dropsofarainbow219/pseuds/Dropsofarainbow219
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy lives in a cottage. It's a very nice cottage. Every morning, she makes herself tea. The kettle is broken, so she boils the water in a pot. </p><p>Then Harry Potter turns up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turquoise Cottage

**Author's Note:**

> “Tell them need is an excuse for love. Tell them need prevails.”
> 
> —Anne Sexton

Draco Malfoy has lived in a cottage for the past seven years.

It’s a nice cottage, to be fair. There isn’t anything wrong with it. The wood linings on the outside are painted blue, and the cement between the beams is painted white. There is moss growing on one side. It has a chimney, and two bedrooms, and a bathroom, and a kitchen which is open to the smallish lounge. It’s fine. It’s nice. The kettle is broken, has been for the past year, but Draco doesn’t mind. Draco has simply being boiling her tea water in a pot instead.

The cottage also has a stone path leading down to it.

The whole situation is located at the remote end of a remote village on the Scottish island of Raasay. Less than two hundred people live here. There is grass, and sea, and plenty of sheep.

It rains a lot outside Draco’s window.

She sits up and steps out of bed. She puts on muggle clothes. She boils her tea water in a pot, because the kettle has been broken for the past year.

After that, she likes to pour in a bit of milk – no sugar – and look out the window while she stirs it. The window has a nice criss-cross pattern across it, a whole jigsaw of diamond openings into the outside world.

Draco likes to sit on one of the sofas, and drink her tea there. There are too many sofas for one person, but that’s okay. There’s also too many tea cups, so Draco only uses one.

Sometimes, when Draco’s hands start shaking, she finds that it’s difficult to make tea in the morning. Sometimes she wakes up, but she can only sit by the window in her pyjamas, for the whole day. She used to wear silk pyjamas, but now she wears cotton. There’s a patch near the hem of her pyjama top that has been rubbed thin from between her first finger and thumb.

Draco wakes up, and she makes tea. She likes to make tea. It might be the best part of the day. She makes her tea, and she sits down by the window, and when all that’s done and it’s dark again, she gets ready for bed. There are too many bedrooms, but that’s okay. There are too many empty bottles labelled dreamless sleep on the bedside table, but that’s okay. There’s too much rain here, on this island, but that’s okay, it’s all okay, because the rain feeds the green outside the window, and the green reminds Draco of water, of flashing light, and of eyes.

* * *

It’s a dry morning when Harry Potter makes her way down the path of stone slabs leading to Draco Malfoy’s cottage. Draco’s just pulled out her favourite cup when there’s a set of knocks on the door.

When she opens it, Harry Potter is standing in her doorway.

“Malfoy,” she says looking up, and then her eyes go rounder, and her brows drop lower. “Malfoy,” she says again. “Can I – come in?”

Malfoy closes her eyes, and opens her eyes, and steps aside.

“Thanks.” Potter brushes past her, and then stands in the middle of room, hands on her hips, frowning.

Draco lingers there by the door, hand clenched around the handle, and stares at her.

She looks the same as ever – dark skin, thick brows, thin lips – her wide hips, her stocky set of legs, which are slightly apart now, planted so solidly in the ground she looks like she grew out of it. Her hair is longer than it used to be, and her robes billow out around her. They look expensive.

After a good couple minutes, Draco decides to close the door and Potter looks back at her. It seems to take her a second to focus on Draco, and then she looks over the rest of her, her lean frame, her muggle clothes.

“Malfoy,” says Potter. “Your hair is short.”

Malfoy looks down.

“Did you cut it?”

“Yes.” Draco looks back up. Potter is appraising her, still.

“Look, I – I,” Draco stutters as Potters gaze snaps back to meet hers. “I – really need to make tea.”

“Oh,” says Potter. “Of course. Yes. Go ahead.”

Draco moves past Potter to the sink and fills the pot up with water. Potter doesn’t even notice that she’s not using the kettle.

“It’s a nice house you’ve got here,” she’s saying, by the time Draco hands her a cup of tea. She’s sat herself down in the other sofa. “Oh, right. Thank you.”

“It’s not a house,” says Draco. “It’s a cottage.”

Potter frowns. “Do you have any sugar?”

“No.”

“Oh.” says Potter. “That’s okay. Sugar. Who needs it?” She laughs uncomfortably, and glances around the room.

Draco drinks her tea. She drinks all of it before Potter’s even a quarter through.

“Right,” says Potter all of a sudden, her cup coming down to meet the counter loudly. Draco starts, and clutches at her own cup.

Potter doesn’t notice. When Draco looks up, she sees that her cheeks are slightly flushed, and her eyes are very bright.

“Do you know a Kumbukani Laska?”

“What?”

Potter straightens up. “Kumbukani Laska? You heard of him? At all?”

“I’m sorry,” says Draco carefully. “I can’t help you.”

“Death Eater? Let Voldemort experiment on his wife and children?”

“I can’t help you.” says Draco.

“It was an awful thing, you know.” says Potter. “He killed them.”

“Potter,” says Draco.

“How’d you end up here anyway?” says Potter. “All by yourself? In a cottage like this?”

Draco puts down her cup. “Why does it matter?” she says. “What are you looking for?”

Potter frowns and her eyes go unfocused for a moment. Then she blinks at Draco. “Right.” she says, and clears her throat. “Well, I’ll be going. Have a good day Malfoy.” she turns around and walks out the door, and down the stone path, away into the distance. The door swings open behind her, letting the sea breeze all into the room. Draco shuts it. It’s much bigger than the window.

* * *

Draco doesn’t expect Potter to come back the next day, but come back she does, with a different set of robes. These ones have red piping all down the sides.

“Right.” she says, coming into Draco’s cottage. “Right-eo. Hello Malfoy.”

“Hello,” Draco says quietly.

Potter leans back onto the counter. She picks up a cup and looks at it, whistling. Draco shuts the door, and frowns.

“Potter-“ she begins.

“What kind of tea do you drink?” Potter asks loudly, and hops up onto the counter. It creaks, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I –“ says Draco, and stops. “Peppermint.” she says.

“Oh. Oh!” says Potter. “It’s very nice.”

Draco looks away. “Thank you.”

“Peppermint,” says Harry, in a tone akin to wonder. “I’ve never tried that before.” She swings her legs, back and forth.

Potter hums, and then looks over at Draco as if remembering she’s there. “Malfoy.” she says, frowning. “I haven’t seen you since the trials.”

Malfoy swallows. “No,” she says. “You haven’t.”

“How are your parents? Where’ve they gone?”

Draco shakes her head. “My parents?” she hears herself ask.

“Yeah. You know, Lucius and Narcissa. They’re not here anymore, are they?”

“I don’t – I don’t –“

“Lucius is in Azkaban isn’t he? How’s that? And what about your mother?”

“They don’t – I live here alone.”

“Mmm, yes, but you can’t have done at first. How did you get here-“

“I’m alone!” shouts Draco, and immediately the room goes quiet. Potter stares at her. She realises her hands are shaking.

Draco inhales unsteadily and puts her hands behind back. “Potter,” she whispers. “Maybe you should go.”

Potter blinks and blinks, and then Draco opens the door, and realisation dawns on Potter’s face. “Ah, okay.” she says, and forces a smile. “I’ll be going then.” She walks down that stone path and Draco closes the door. Takes a deep breath. Reaches for her tea.

* * *

Potter keeps on coming back. It messes with Draco’s tea-making routine. The water takes longer to boil. She keeps running out of milk.

The day after, Potter has a handful of forget-me-nots in her hand. “Potter?” says Draco, frowning when she opens the door.

“Malfoy!” says Potter. “What a lovely shirt you have on! I’ve always liked blue.”

“What are you doing?” says Draco.

“Oh,” says Potter, holding up the bouquet and brandishing it through the air like a bloodied sword. “These are flowers! They match your house, don’t you think? And your shirt too.”

And then Potter smiles.

Draco lets her in.

“I thought you were a Gryffindor,” murmurs Draco once they’re settled, palms filled with cups of tea.

“Hmm?” says Potter from around the cup.

“I thought red would be your favourite colour.”

“Oh,” says Potter, flapping a hand about. “Yes, but I like blue an awful lot. The rain is blue.”

“The rain isn’t any colour.” Draco says.

“But that’s just an opinion. Anyway, Hermione says that we should all move past house stereotyping. Why, is your favourite colour green?”

Draco licks her lips. “Yes.”

Potter laughs, and it’s a round, rich sound. “Tell me why.” she demands.

“The sea is green.” says Draco.

“Don’t be silly,” says Potter, a twinkle in her eyes. “The sea isn’t any colour.”

* * *

Another time, Draco asks:

“How are Weasley and – Granger?”

Potter stops smiling and licks her upper lip. Her tongue is red.

“They’re fine. We all lived together for a while, which was nice – they have children now, you know.”

“You live together?” asks Draco, despite herself.

“No, no.” says Potter, shaking her head, black hair getting everywhere. “I mean, we did, for a while – because during the war, it was hard to find places to stay, as you know – but then they got married-“

“It was hard to find places to stay,” repeats Draco.

Potter shrugs. “You know how the economy can be.”

Draco stares as Potter takes an extended sip of tea.  She stares as a drop of water rolls down from the corner of Potter’s mouth and clings to her chin.

She considers asking Potter where she’s staying now – but that would make it all too real, wouldn’t it – to know that Harry Potter came from somewhere else to Draco Malfoy, instead of just rising out of morning mist, and grass, and the green, and found herself trotting down those stone slabs – so Malfoy doesn’t, because what she has is this cottage, and everything in it, and Harry Potter does not need to exist outside of it.

Another time, Potter turns up with a bottle of wine.

“Potter?” says Draco. When Potter’s gaze finally locks onto the other woman, she swallows and furrows her brows.

“If you had just told me you were a substance abuser to begin with,” Draco says. “You could have saved me a lot of sleepless nights.”

Potter shifts from foot to foot and then quirks her head. “Wine?” she says eventually, looking confused. “I thought it was polite to bring the house owner drinks?”

Draco huffs a laugh, and then bites down on her lips. “It’s a cottage.” she says, and opens the door wider. “Come in.”

Another time, Potter comes when Draco is outside doing the weeds. Draco normally tries not to go outside too much, but realised just the other day that the walk down from the path would be so much prettier if there were less weeds. She’s even considering planting some flowers.

“You garden?” asks Potter as she crouches down, not appearing to notice the way her expensive robes fold into the damp earth. Draco straightens up, sitting back on her heels, cheeks warm.

“No.” she says.

“It looks like you’re gardening.” says Potter, a grin curling up in the side of her lips. “It sounds like you’re gardening.”

“What does gardening sound like?” mutters Draco, yanking out another weed. She sees the other side of Potter’s lips curl up as well.

“Like quiet indignation,” says Potter.

“What’s wrong with gardening?” demands Draco.

“You tell me.” says Potter, a sliver of teeth peeking through her lips.

Draco grunts, and buries her fingers in the soil.

“I like that you garden.” says Potter.

“Do you?” Draco injects, her voice dry.

“I like that you have a cottage.” Potter continues. “I like that it’s blue.”

Draco dips her head.

“I like that you wear muggle clothes.” Potter’s voice seems to be growing louder. “I like that you make tea in the morning.”

When Draco looks up, Potter’s dark brows are very close. Her eyes are swimming. “Malfoy.” she says, her voice suddenly, suspiciously soft. “Let’s have tea now.”

“Now?” Draco says faintly.

Potter nods. “I like having tea with you.” she breathes. Her head almost seems to be swinging back and forth, slowly, a flag in the wind. “I like it lots.”

Draco swallows, and swallows again, and licks her lips and starts to stand up. And then Potter’s dark brows are very close again, and her thin lips are even closer.

“Malfoy,” Potter says, and Malfoy closes her eyes. Malfoy lets her head tip back and her chin move upwards, and she feels Potter’s lips brush lightly against her own. They’re dry.

Malfoy opens her eyes, and Potter sways back. Her hand wraps around Malfoy’s wrist.

“Tea?” she asks, and Malfoy nods.

* * *

In the lounge, Potter stands whilst Malfoy picks out the cups. Her hands are shaking again. When she turns around, Potter is smiling at her.

“Malfoy,” says Potter. “Come here.”

Malfoy puts down the cups and walks over, her eyes darting over Potter’s neck, shoulders, chest. When they’re face to face, Potter reaches out and draws her in with a hand guiding each arm, easing them back, back, around Potter. She can feel Potter’s breath on her cheek. She can feel Potter’s nose brushing her nose.

“Come here,” murmurs Potter, and she feels her lips brush over hers again, back and forth, back and forth. An arm wraps around Malfoy’s waist, and their lips press together, soft, for a couple moments. Malfoy can’t remember when she closed her eyes. She’s not even sure if her eyes are closed. Potter moves against her, and the inside of her mouth can’t be as dry as the outside because her breath is hot and humid and wet against Malfoy’s. And her cheeks are right there, her brows and lightning scar are right there, and her eyes are right there.

Draco quivers, and Harry pulls her close and opens her mouth.

Harry’s tongue is warm, and slips against Malfoy’s lips, heavy on the seam of her lower one, pressing and pushing into her mouth, and Malfoy feels herself inhale sharply, and Harry’s tongue just keeps on going, pressing, pushing against the inside of her cheek, against her teeth, the roof of her mouth – her own tongue, darting out to meet Harry’s, slipping and pressing and pushing against, and then Potter moans quietly, and presses the heel of her palm into the back of my Malfoy’s head, and pushes her head back slightly to kiss her deeper. Malfoy’s hand grips Potter’s shoulder, hanging on, and then Potter’s other hand slips down and rubs over Malfoy’s ass, squeezing through the jeans, and Malfoy gasps loudly, almost tugging away, but held in place by Harry’s hand, and Harry’s mouth, and the length of her reaching out over her – all that Harry Potter against her, touching her – and then Harry pushes off her own robes and puts both hands on Malfoy’s hips.

Malfoy breathes heavily as she stares at the other woman, at her simple grey vest and exposed shoulders and not-quite-so-thin lips, and then Potter smiles and takes her hand and says:

“Have you ever taken tea in bed?”

And Potter leads her to the right bedroom and presses her into the mattress, and kisses her some more, and climbs on top of her, and every part of Malfoy that can pulse pulses.

She starts to unbutton Malfoy’s shirt, pressing kisses after each button until Malfoy squirms, and Potter grins breathily up at Malfoy and kisses her again, her tongue stroking the roof of Malfoy’s mouth, rubbing clumsily against her lips, cupping Malfoy’s breast with one hand. Malfoy arches her back, gasping, but Potter just keeps on kissing her open mouth, and kneads her through the cotton material with her hand, the other reaching underneath Malfoy and pressing into the curve of her back, lifting her up. She can feel Potter grinding against her thigh through her jeans, and for a brief moment considers that she’s about to go insane from sensory overload. And then she isn’t considering anything at all, except for the movement of Harry’s body, and her hands, and the glowing sitting in the absence of her mind.

“Take off your shirt,” says Malfoy, and Potter sits up, straddling Malfoy, and pulls her vest up over her head. Potter doesn’t shave her armpits. Her bra is purple.

Malfoy reaches around and unhooks the bra, pulling it away. Potter’s breasts fall into her face and she touches her, a hand sliding up her side to cup her underneath, her mouth opening to lap at the other woman’s nipple, drawing it into her mouth and pulling back, closing her lips around the soft skin and sucking. Potter’s hand finds the back of Malfoy’s head and sifts through her hair, tugging at the short strands. Malfoy releases her and licks a line up her cleavage, biting at her collarbone, and then Potter pulls Malfoy up and kisses her, before pushing her back into the pillow, sucking kisses all down her neck. She reaches behind to pull off Malfoy’s bra before she can process it, and for a brief moment Malfoy suddenly feels embarrassed, to have breasts so much smaller than Harry – of fucking course – and then Harry is kissing her and feeling her and all Malfoy feels is her.

“Malfoy,” breathes Potter, and puts on a hand on the front of Malfoy’s trousers. “Draco.”

Draco bucks up, her broken exhale loud in the room, and then Harry is kissing her again, and Harry is taking off her trousers and reaching inside her, and all Draco can do is buck and moan and gasp and rub her hands against Harry’s hips and stomach and wherever else, and all she can see is Harry, the shape of her, the slope of her face, her beautiful eyes – and all she can think is sweet, my love, harder, please, Harry – and when she comes, mouth an open wound, bleeding the gibberish of intimacy – everything is green.

She comes to, panting, sweat clinging to her breasts and stomach and neck, and she watches as Harry pulls off her jeans and pants and begins to ride Draco’s thigh, thrusting onto the pale of her skin, and Draco can feel her, can _feel_ the wetness and slide and heat – Harry grips her thighs hard enough to bruise – and pulls her in, and groans, her voice strangled –

and Draco says, “Come here,” and Harry gasps and squeezes her eyes shut and digs in her fingernails, and her hips go erratic as she comes onto Draco, and Draco watches, brushing her hair off her face and reaching up to kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth.

“Harry,” she says, dragging her lips across her face. “Harry, love –“

And Potter smiles underneath her, and lets go of her waist to clasp Draco Malfoy’s face and kiss her back.

* * *

The next morning, Draco gets out of bed, and goes straight to the kitchen. The tap is there. The pot is there. The kettle that hasn’t worked for a year is there.

She walks back out, stumbling on the fabric of her pyjama trousers, and slips into the bathroom.

Her lips, her hair. She touches her lips and her hair. She touches the same lips that Potter touched, and the same hair that Potter touched, and feels the bloom of her mouth as it stretches over her teeth and digs into her cheeks.

She goes into the bedroom and pulls out the clothes she is going to wear. And then she falls back into the duvet and holds the sheets to her face, clutches them between her fingertips. Breathes in, beathes out. Closes her eyes.

She puts her clothes on. Everything is green.

* * *

After, Potter had kissed her eyelids and had gone to get biscuits from the cupboard. She had brought them back, and got crumbs all over the mattress, and then they had done it again. And then again. And then they had a bathroom break. And had done it again. And then Potter had gone to actually make tea, except Draco followed her, and watched – and there had been something so delicately aching inside as Draco had watched her boil the water and make the tea. Watching the bubbles climb each other angrily. Watching the shift of Potter’s brown arm as she lifted the handle. Watching her add the milk, and all the while something delicate was shattering, beneath the white skin of Draco’s body.

Draco goes into town to buy sugar. And then she comes home – and the walk down the stone path is really much prettier this way, it really is – and then she makes the tea, and every step of it feels like making love.

* * *

Potter doesn’t come that day.

* * *

 

It stops raining. It doesn’t rain for the rest of the week, and Draco spends half of Thursday sitting under the shower, cold beads pelting into her hair, sluicing down her back, waiting under the water that isn’t green, or blue.

Blue. Draco can close her eyes and recall the exact shade of it that is supposed to be sadness – she remembers all sorts of colours – but she’d forgotten about blue, and how she’d stepped around it, all these years, dancing around puddles of navy in her tiptoes, always thinking that this was some sort of survival – to stay on your feet, soles to the ground, never letting yourself drown –

but sadness doesn’t have a colour, or even a texture. Sadness just has a space inside you – a reserved table, a booked hotel room – and you can tidy things up as much as possible, but it is coming, it is coming down, picking its way amongst the stone slabs – and it will make you a guest in your own home.

* * *

On Friday, Draco tries to make tea. She pours the boiling water into the tea cup, and stares at it. The bubbles rising at the side of the cup pop. The tea bag bobs up to the surface, brown unfurling from its pores. Draco stares at it.

Did she think she was okay, making tea every morning, in the same cup, in the same kitchen, in the same cottage on the same island, boiling water in a pot? Did she really think that this was fine, that she could live like this – because she could, she could go through the rest of her pathetic existence making tea in a cottage and staring out of the window, comfortable, always staying dry when it rained – but did that ever mean it was _alright?_

She did what she had to do. She survived the war. She survived the trials. She survived it when they came for father, and she survived it when mother left, and she made a life for herself, she made a comfortable, easy, simple life.

She has her cottage. She has her green. She has her tea.

And all of a sudden, it strikes her how much it _isn’t enough._

She yanks open the cupboard, and grabs the tea cup that Potter used, and flings it across the room. The shards catch in her rug, the delicate china cracking open like an eggshell, and Potter will never use that tea cup again. She reaches for another one, just to watch it for a second time, and then she starts grabbing them by the handful, all these too many tea cups, hurtling them across the room, the sound of shattering filling her tiny lounge, and it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because it _isn’t enough._

She goes into the bathroom and squeezes out all the toothpaste into the sink, clogging it up with blue and white ropes that will make your teeth noticeably whiter in just two weeks, and then she grabs her tooth brush and snaps it in two, and grabs the roll of toilet paper and just starts unspooling it all over everything; the toilet seat, the shower head, the bathtub – she goes into the extra bedroom, where her parents used to sleep, and drapes it over the four posters, around her mother’s dressing table. She takes that beloved mirror, the silver of it covered in a film of dust, of abandonment, and smashes it on her knee, and gasps as fragments imbed themselves in her flesh and trickle down her calf to her ankle. She smears her blood on the wooden panels and looks at the ceiling and thinks – t _his is what you’ve done to me, this is what you left behind._

She comes to with a gasp, choking back on the rattling inside her throat, grabbing at her shoulders and cheeks and the sides of her head and pants for breath, her chest closing in on her –

but there is nothing here, except her tea and her cottage and all these ghosts – there is nothing here but herself, and she is struck with the sudden and utmost fear that she can scream as loud as she wants and no one will hear.

She opens her mouth, tipping forward and letting her arms wrap around her middle as her fingernails bury themselves above her elbows – but if she screams, and no one is around to hear it, is she even really screaming at all?

It goes on and on and on, the hot run down of saltwater drying on her face, the endless twisting of her body, the struggle to open her eyes and close them – and it goes on, like some kind of unspoken crucio, that grabs her by the neck and whispers into her ear that this _is not enough,_ and that she is going to die like this – she going to die, and no one is going to see it, so it won’t even count.

She thinks that maybe life is just like this for everyone, no matter how far they go – that maybe there is this inevitable loneliness waiting for every person at the end of each road, at the end of every stone path they walk down – that although they can make it as pretty as they like, they are always alone. And then she thinks that maybe it’s just her, just a flaw in her system, in her choices, in her mind where something went wrong, something did or didn’t connect to something crucial – and then she thinks that maybe this is it, that maybe, her biggest flaw has just turned out to be her need for love.

And what a cruel thing it is, to be told that love is all you need, and believe it, and know it, and feel it – and then to live without. What a cruel trick all this is – her cottage and rain and tea – this that belongs to her, and belongs to her only, because she cannot climb out of herself and into someone else – what a cruel thing Potter was, to come into her cottage, her bed, her mouth – and to leave after only a taste of what it feels like to love and be loved.

And with a sense of abysmal emptiness it dawns on her again, this truth about herself – that she would kill a thousand people, torture them to death, burn the whole world just to be loved; and that it makes no difference, no difference at all, because she will still be loveless.

* * *

Potter comes on Saturday.

She opens the door, and Potter is just standing there, in a purple robe and her hair tied up in a ponytail.

“Malfoy!” says Potter when she looks up, and Draco just stands there, her mouth tightly closed.

Potter opens hers to keep going and then seems to catch herself, and frowns.

“Malfoy,” she says again, her voice gravelly and serious. “Can I come in?”

Draco ‘s legs begin to shake, and she steps aside.

Potter comes over and sits down on a sofa. She crosses her legs and clasps her hands on one knee. “Malfoy,” she says again, voice so low it almost scrapes the floor. “It’s been a while.”

I’m in love with a crazy person, Draco realises suddenly, her heart catching desperately in her throat. I’m in love with someone clinically unstable.

Potter, she tries to say, and can’t. Harry Potter.

“Tell me,” says Harry, leaning forward and lowering her chin theatrically onto her fist. “Do you know anything about a Kumbukani Laska?”

Oh god, thinks Draco. Oh, god.

“He was a Deatheater, you know,” Harry says conversationally. “Killed his wife and children when he gave them up to Voldemort – it’s very sad.”

Draco feels her knees begin to buckle.

“It would be really helpful if you could tell me anything about him,” Potter continues, leaning forward, her eyes glistening as green as newly unfurled leaves. “If you could tell me anything at all.”

“He’s in Singapore,” whispers Draco, and closes her eyes. “He’s in hiding. Harry, please.”

“Thank you,” breathes Harry, and suddenly her voice is very close. “That’s perfect.”

“Harry,” says Draco, and her voice breaks.

“You’re perfect,” says Harry. “You’re lovel-“

Draco opens her eyes and steps back. She moves behind the kitchen counter, and looks over at Harry Potter.

“There,” she says, and her voice sounds wet, even to her. “That’s all I know. Harry, if you’re going to go –“

She swallows and looks down, blinking back the heat in her eyes. It’s catching fire. The things inside of her are curling up as they burn.

 “Harry,” she says, and when she looks up, Harry is staring at her, frowning, her eyes so confused. “Harry,” she says. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Then her knees really do buckle, and then Harry is there, an arm around her, frowning deeper – and for the first time since Draco’s seen her again, looking focused.

“Draco,” she says. “What’s wrong with you?”

Draco bursts into tears.

“Draco,” says Harry again, looking alarmed, a hand on her shoulder. “Draco, please, tell me what’s wrong, why are you crying, why are you like this-“

Draco just cries and cries and cries, turning her head into Harry’s chest, gasping as she tries to breathe, choking on the spasms wracking through her. And Harry smells so good, she feels so good – and all Draco can do is cry, all she can do is break.

“Please don’t leave,” Draco manages to whisper against her skin, and Harry inhales sharply.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, Draco.”

Draco feels her breath hitch and fall like a child’s – and she feels like a child, like the whole world is so much bigger than she is, and it’s all absurd and out of control – and then Potter presses her lips to Draco’s forehead and puckers them.

“Oh Draco,” she keeps saying, “Love,”

Draco keeps on crying, moans turning to whimpers that in some abstract part of her mind she wishes she could put a stop to – and Harry leans down and peppers kisses all over her tear tracks, rocking her back and forth.

“Oh, Draco,” she murmurs. “Draco, Draco, Draco.”

She kisses Draco’s lips, once, lightly, and begins to get them both up, an arm Draco’s waist. “Come on,” says Harry. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She leads Draco into the bathroom, which has been tidied since Thursday, and presses her gently into the wall.

“Come on,” she says. “You’re okay. Draco, you’re going to be okay.”

She goes over to bathtub and turns on the showerhead, feeling the temperature of the water. And then she comes back over to where Draco stands, quiet now, and kisses her properly this time.

With a horrible sense of foreboding, Draco opens her mouth under Harry and kisses her back. Harry’s hot tongue is everywhere, and oh, how Draco has missed her, how Draco has loved her – and then her hot hands are everywhere too, gripping her hips, pressing her in closer, reaching to unbutton her shirt – and Draco turns her head to the side and gasps.

“Harry,” she begins to say, trying to push back with her hands on Harry’s shoulders, but Harry just drops her mouth to Draco’s now exposed shoulder, dragged wet flesh across Draco’s dry skin.

“Please,” she whispers, growing more desperate as more buttons are undone. “Please, Harry – I can’t –“

Harry straightens up and kisses her deeper, her tongue rubbing the back of Draco’s throat, pushing Draco’s shirt off her shoulders, and then she unclips Draco’s bra and Draco begins to cry again.

Harry leans back and grazes her fingers against Draco’s chin, turning her head to look at her.

“Look at me,” she says, and Draco does, and her eyes are so green, her eyes have always been so green, _why_ are they so –

“Draco,” she breathes, leaning in to lick the tears off Draco’s cheek. “Darling, I’m here. I’m not going to leave. Draco, I promise.”

Draco gulps for air and swallows and pants into Harry’s collarbone as Harry kisses from her nose to her hairline.

“Draco,” she keeps muttering, a chant against Draco’s skin. “I’m not going to go.”

Draco feels another tear roll down her cheek, and leans in to kiss Harry’s collarbone. “Harry,” she whispers, her voice hoarse and soft. “Harry Potter.”

“Draco,” murmurs Harry, as if in assent, and then she steps back and helps Draco with the rest of her clothes. Draco leans into kiss her, deeper again, kissing her with all the agony of loneliness, of wanting and not having, and then falls back against the wall, her lips trembling, and watches as Harry takes off her own clothes. She reaches out for Harry once she is naked, but Harry just takes her by the shoulders and steers her towards the showers. “Come on,” she says. “You don’t want all the hot water to run out.”

The water sluices over Draco’s head and back, and she shivers as Harry’s hands come up around her torso, trailing over her stomach and breast and up to her shoulder. Harry kisses the back of Draco’s neck, her mouth somehow hotter than the shower water, and Draco sighs and relaxes back into her body. Everywhere Harry touches prickles, and shakes, and aches, and the ache is so sour it’s sweet, and the ache is so sweet that Draco arches her back and groans.

“Here, let me,” says Harry and then she starts planting wet, open kisses all down the spine of Draco’s back, licking and grazing her teeth over ridges, and in a brief moment of dazed reflection, Draco comprehends that she is being consumed.

Harry presses her mouth against the starting swell of Draco’s bottom, and wraps an arm around the front of her hips to draw her closer as Draco opens her eyes and lets out a loud and decidedly feminine gasp.

“Harry,” she pants, and then moans as Harry draws her in closer, biting and licking her way across all that white skin, which blossoms pink and red under command. In response Harry moves her hands to clutch Draco’s hips and sits back on her heels.

“Turn around,” she says, and turns Draco around. Draco looks down and grasps her head, kneading her fingers through all that thick black hair, heavy with the shower water trickling down the line of her back; her velvet skin, russet brown and luminous against the dull white of the bathtub, and then Harry leans up and kisses her stomach, mouthing her belly button, sucking one breast into her unforgiving mouth.

And Draco can only say her name, and feel her touch, and there is very little else.

Harry looks up at Draco, emerald eyes scorching into her own, her mouth a swollen rubicund and her skin damp and warm and black where the strands of her hair cling desperately in wild little whorls to her pores, and she tips forward and presses her mouth against the white curls beneath Draco’s stomach. Draco inhales harshly, and runs her fingers over Harry’s forehead, wiping back the strands. And then Harry nudges Draco’s thigh to the side, and opens her mouth against Draco’s crotch.

“Harry,” says Draco, her voice coming out half-strangled, and Harry dips her tongue in deeper, sliding against all the right places, and Draco stumbles forward and gasps.

“Harry, please,” she says, canting her hips forward and swaying, one hand blindly reaching out to brush against the wet tiles, her eyes scrunched shut. “Harry, please, don’t-“ she says, even as her fist tightens its grip in all that dark hair between her legs, and even as the moan works itself up her throat, until she throws her head back into the path of the showerhead, letting water spill across her face and down her neck and chest, dripping off her nipples and all the way down to where Harry is kissing her, and keeps kissing her, and oh _gods –_

And she remembers suddenly how Blaise had once asked her after he’d walked in on her and Pansy snogging in the library if it was softer with girls, if it was more gentle, and tender, and fragile – and what he didn’t know was that the truth was that it _was_ , it was all those things with a girl – but didn’t he realise that sometimes something could be so soft it tore at every edge and bled, didn’t he know that sometimes the loving could be so tender you could slice right through it with a couple of well whetted words, and leave it in bruised pieces, the shades of gold and amber and violet – didn’t he know that sometimes this kind of loving, this kind of fucking between woman was so fragile that it went beyond breaking and broke and broke and broke, like some kind of inevitable chain reaction, that kept shattering until shards were sharper than any blade’s edge –

And how femininity could be this terrifying thing – a place where love and violence overlapped like lips over teeth, and teeth over tongue – and how everyone knew that girl’s bodies could be soft and beautiful, and that they wobbled all over when they loved – but failed to understand how a woman’s back could snap in pleasure like some kind of injury, how slender fingers could coil around bed sheets and hair in some kind of unrestrained destruction – and how orgasm could feel like some violent, torturous thing, when the woman you love cannot reach you, cannot touch you through all your wobbling, rounded flesh; and try as you might bind yourself to love to save you, all that ever comes of it is this breaking, be it your shell or your bones.  

“Harry,” gasps Draco, and comes, the sounds in her throat splintering, and she grinds onto Harry’s jaw and Harry just takes it, she just takes it until it’s gone.

* * *

Draco rolls over to the other side of the bed. The mattress is suddenly cool beneath her, and she blinks against the pillow. When she stretches, the sheets rustle under her toes.

She turns over, and Harry blinks her eyes open. Her cheek is folded into the white material, her lashes short and stubby, almost slanting downward into her waterline. Her lips are still chapped.

“Hello,” she croaks.

“Hello,” whispers Draco. She tucks her hand under her jaw and nestles her head closer. Harry smiles.

“I dreamt about thestrals.” she says, closing her eyes and stretching one arm over her head. She groans as her bones pop, and sighs happily. “I was riding one, except I couldn’t see it.” She rolls back over to Draco and grins.

“I couldn’t see it.” she tells her, her voice dropping to an excited whisper, as if she is sharing a secret of utmost importance. “I couldn’t see it, and it was like I was flying all on my own, and nothing was underneath me.”

She shuffles closer to Draco and cups her cheek, drawing her in for a kiss. Draco opens her mouth obligingly – obliging it all. Harry’s tongue is sour and there is a white film on the inside of her lips. Draco opens her mouth more.

Harry pulls back after a couple moments and flops onto her back. Her hand wanders down, brushing Draco’s nipples, spanning her waist absentmindedly, as if the task doesn’t require her full attention. Draco arches her back.

“I love your cottage.” Harry says suddenly, her hand pausing. Draco stiffens.

“Why?”

“It’s just so –“ Harry abruptly sits up, the sheets pooling at her hips. She gnaws on her lips as she thinks it through. “It’s so quaint. It’s just so…nice.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Draco rolls onto her back as well, and stares up at the ceiling. Harry looks back at her over her shoulder and frowns.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“I love it. I love that – I love that it’s blue.”

“I should spell it green.” Draco says dryly. Harry falls back onto her elbows and surveys the room.

“I wish I had a cottage.” she says after a while.

Draco closes her eyes, and then opens them.

“You can have this one.” she whispers. “It’s not going anywhere.”

Harry is suddenly in her face, all smiles and apple cheeks.

“And what about you?” she says, taking Draco in her hands. Her voice is as warm as butterbeer. “Are you going anywhere?”

Draco looks at her, her heart hammering in her chest, and then Harry slowly lowers her smile onto Draco’s mouth and kisses her again. Her body is hot and slow as it moves against Draco’s skin, and all Draco wants to do is wind her arms around to the small of her back and secure her there.

So she does, she winds her arms there and lower, gripping Harry’s hips and buttocks in her hands, and Harry mumbles against Draco’s lips and presses her thigh right into her.

Draco gasps and breaks away, turning her head to the side as Harry plants sloppy kisses against Draco’s burning cheek. After a moment, she slips off of Draco and tucks herself behind her, slotting her chin into the hollow of her shoulder and snaking an arm around her ribs. Draco grips her forearm.

“Kumbukani was gay,” she says suddenly. Behind her, Harry freezes.

“That’s why – he had a lover. Some boy he kept safe in an abandoned house.” Draco rushes on, blinking back the stinging in her eyes. “I’m not saying it’s excusable, what he did. I’m just saying – he wasn’t… made of stone. That’s how you made it sound.”

“Are you gay?” asks Harry.

“What?” Draco turns over and stares at her.

“Are you gay?”

“Yes,” she says. “But – “

Harry blinks at her.

“I just –“ she tries to say, and then it comes tumbling out. “Don’t go.”

Harry just smiles and strokes Draco’s cheek with her thumb.

“I won’t.” she says. “I’m not going anywhere else.”

* * *

Harry does go. She goes three days later, back to the Auror Headquarters where, as Draco has suspected, she had to aid in the final capture and imprisonment of Mr. Laska. She had kissed Draco before she left, pressing her against the doorframe and telling her with a feverous desperation in those gorgeous green eyes that she was coming back, that Draco should wait for her. Draco had just kissed her, and kissed her, and watched her go.

Now, Draco reaches up to pinch her lip between her fingers, rubbing the flesh back and forth like her cotton pyjama top. Above her, the sky is blue – a distinct blue, like dragon eggs and forget-me-nots and rain-water. The clouds are whiter than the sheep coats.

She picks her way over a fence and makes her way down a set of stone slabs to the beach. The water makes a gentle roaring sound, and the pebbles shift under Draco’s soles.

Draco stands there for a while, watching seagulls chasing each other as they squawk, tasting the salt in the morning air. In six days, Harry will be back. Twelve days, if things are especially rough. Until then, Draco has plenty of tea to make, and plenty of flowers to plant. Plenty of water to boil. Perhaps she will buy some more sugar before Harry comes back.

As she watches, she decides that maybe the sea is more blue than green. Or more blue at first. Or maybe it’s just turquoise.

The waves crash onto the rocks, loud and soft, and Draco Malfoy stands there for a while.

* * *

The walk back is always shorter than the walk there. Draco comes down the stone path and goes into her cottage. Somehow, it seems even smaller than before, but that’s okay. The paint is peeling off in places as well, and at least that she can improve.

But first. Tea.

Draco takes off her coat and pulls out a surviving cup. She’s just reaching for the pot when the unfamiliar catches her eye.

She looks over. On the edge of the kitchen counter is a new kettle.

Draco closes her eyes and opens her eyes very slowly.

 And then she smiles.

She wraps her fingers around the plastic handle and brings it over to the tap. Water sloshes over the edge as she fills it right up, dripping down the shiny silver metal like rain. She sits it back on the heating element, and flicks on the switch with her thumb.

The green indicator light flashes on.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you have a spare moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts.


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